The Sweat of the Brow (xxx)
I get a note from Katie. It is brief and cold in a way that suggests the hot and hidden. It says to meet her in a high-numbered room at the Rookery. It takes me just a moment of searching to find out it’s a hotel.
The pod offers me the option of getting out on the street or right inside the lobby. I choose the street. I walk around the block, once, just to stretch. There are lots of people walking. With the better part of the world accessible by cort, why live in a city unless you want to walk the pavement, be among?
It’s quite a hotel. There are people in livery doing all sorts of tasks that don’t need people to do them: hauling luggage, holding doors, changing flowers, manning the front desk. There are people who claim that wasteful archaism doesn’t speak of luxury. Some of them are lying. Some are young.
A bellhop takes me to the fifth floor. I tip him and he nods and he leaves.
It’s a lovely room, except there are no windows. A lover’s suite. There’s no lover there, and no Katie.
I wait.
I sit on the bed. I stretch out in an armchair. I read old Chicago history. I watch gangster movies on the insides of my eyelids. I must have fallen asleep, because I wake up, and Katie’s looking down at me.
“Hello lover,” she says to me.
I may be out of my depth but I’m not out of my mind. I stare at her.
She smiles at me. Coyly. And she looks like use to, back when we were young.
Then she holds up a piece of paper. On it is written, DON’T TALK. And things make sense.
A deserted beach on the Florida coast, that was private. In the jungle, on a mountain, sure. Everywhere else you have to assume someone is listening. Because someone could be. Something could be. Listening. Watching. If they want to. And whatever Katie does or gets done, it’s a safe bet there are people who want to.
Anything can be heard or seen. Anything can be recorded. There are exceptions to the rule. But I didn’t like relying on exceptions. Not when I was getting into… God knows what.
She puts her purse on the bed and opens it. She takes out a manila envelope and a ball. She unrolls the latter into a length of tiny white cable, with every six inches or so a paper-thin square the size of a coaster. She lays this out on the bed from foot to pillow. She fiddles with a dedicated interface at its end.
The little squares are speakers. They start to emit sounds. Very high-quality sounds. Heavy-breathing sounds. I’m looking right at them and I’m still hard-pressed to believe there aren’t two people having sex in the room.
It’s so strange I almost forget to get uncomfortable.
Katie turns to me and hands me the manila envelope. I open it. Inside is a piece of paper and a smaller envelope. The paper is grainy to the touch. It’s been written on. The writing’s addressed to me.
Martin:
Welcome to work! Sorry for the theatrics. I hate writing by hand, so I’ll be brief.
These are the rules. They sound worse than they are. But if you break any one of them, or even bend it, you’re done.
Don’t talk about the work we do. Not to anyone. Anyone who says they work for me is lying. Not to your therapist. Not to your lawyer. Not to your diary. Not alone in the shower. Never.
We will never talk about work. Not even a nudge or a wink. Not by cort, not in person. Not unless we’ve arranged it beforehand through accepted channels. And even then, only in person, and only in circumstances of my choosing. No exceptions.
If there’s an emergency – tough. If you’re ever in a situation so bad that you need to talk to me, it’s already too late.
You’ll do jobs for me. Each job will be different. Each job will have its own objectives, its own parameters, its own eccentricities. Some will take hours, some might take months. Try to enjoy them. I hope you do.
When you finish a job, you report that you’ve finished it. Then you’ll wait for another. If you keep waiting and it never comes, that’s how I want it. Never, ever hurry me. Most likely it’s nothing you did. Either way, it’s just business.
Every job will set up the manner of communication for the next assignment. If I contact you in any other way, ignore the communication. The only exception is if I hand you instructions myself. Just as I am doing now.
I am a paranoid girl. Which is why I am old, rich, and free, all at the same time.
Details about your first job are in the other envelope. Put it in your pocket and take it home with you. Read it at home where nobody can see you. Memorize it. They shower with it – it will melt in your hands.
Which is what you’ll do with this letter as soon as I leave.
Best of luck, Martin. I really hope it works out. But either way, I’m glad to have you back in my life.
I look up at Katie. She holds my eyes in hers with a heavy grip. Then she nods, and turns back to the controller on her speakers.
After a few more moments of moans and grunts, the disembodied performance comes to a conclusion, and then ends.
A minute of heavy breathing later and she rolls up the speakers, slips them into her purse, kisses my cheek, and takes her leave.
